Tales of Azeroth
by Nex-thanarak
Summary: On a world where war is endless and peace an impossible dream, no story ever ends. It merely moves on to the next chapter. A series of one shots set in Azeroth, featuring characters you know and love, both from canon and from the Demon Hunter and Honor series.


Marbrand's Offer

The wall had been molded from granite by inhuman hands, all one piece, perfectly smooth and with a delicate curve like a colossal eggshell. In spite of that supposed delicacy it weighed several tons, and the sight of it raising swiftly into position was awe-inspiring.

Marbrand felt no awe, however. Despair, more like, with an anger that had steadily been ground down into bone-deep frustration. He knew the liquid limbs which propelled it were using all their considerable power to do so. And as it reached its upright position, wavered, then inevitably continued on to fall in the opposite direction, those powerful limbs tugged futilely to hold it back, stretched, then exploded into a spray of water that darkened the falling stone in a wide swath.

The wall picked up momentum as it fell, smashed into a row of slender columns and snapped them like toothpicks, then struck the bases of those columns and shattered like the egg it resembled.

He was already moving forward to where the three water elementals, more massive than orcs and with thick, sturdy torsos petering down to wispy bubbles near the ground, struggled to reform their arms. "No no no!" he bellowed. "Damn your liquid hides! Force equals mass times acceleration, Light curse you! If you shove the wall up with all your strength then when it starts to fall it'll do so with more force than your strength can handle and you won't be able to catch it!"

His words were to the elementals, but the message was directed at the mage standing hunch-shouldered behind them, who looked as if he'd been caught out in the middle of edging behind a ruined statue. The elementals remained motionless, regarding him with the intelligence of boiled pudding, and Marbrand turned the full force of his ire on the adept.

"I'll set them to clearing away this mess and rebuilding the wall," the man said sheepishly.

"How is it possible you can put them to tasks that would make a stonemason green with envy, but you can't convince them to lift a wall slow enough to put it in place?" Marbrand demanded.

The mage shrugged. "They're manifestations of water. They know all about eroding stone and pushing things with inexorable pressure until they give. Stopping the pressure halfway through is a bit harder to convey."

Marbrand shoved a shaking finger in the direction of the newest disaster. "You realize that's a week's work you just bungled?" He received no response other than a dangerous glower, and forced himself to remember that this young fool was technically his boss. "One word, Verdon, and I can have a dozen good lads up from Southshore to do this job proper."

The mage sniffed. "One of my minions can do the work of a dozen of your lads. Anyway didn't you just get finished telling me how my elementals rival the work of master craftsmen?"

"And then shatter it all to bits when they're done!" Marbrand shot back. "All the most amazing feats on Azeroth were accomplished by a team of men combining their brilliance. You want to restore the Violet Citadel to the Sixth Wonder of Azeroth, you can't trust it to magic alone."

Verdon's glower deepened. "The original construction was accomplished with magic alone, peasant. Two hundred years ago Archmage Tarvene and the Council of Six created it in just under a month. I've given you nearly twice that long and still the work dallies."

Peasant. It rankled to be thought of as one of the common rabble, let alone referred to that way. But he'd spurned all claims to knighthood after he'd let his men die in the cold, hard north, then come away as one of the only survivors. He didn't deserve esteem or respect.

Sometimes he wondered if anyone did. "And how long did they spend planning the feat of building it in a month?" he demanded. No answer. "There are no magical architects or construction workers among the surviving Kirin Tor, and you've found no books on the subject in what remains of the Arcanaeum. Meanwhile the world's finest mundane builders and stoneworkers are currently terrorizing Westfall with their banditry. So you've got me, woefully inadequate to this task, and your watery pets who spend most of our time mucking it up. No pun intended."

The mage sighed. "I'll talk to Nalis about earth elementals for the final stages of construction. Our designs themselves were good, and you've done a decent job overseeing the work. This is just an unfortunate oversight in elemental management. You're dismissed for the day. Find Nalis and get a tutorial on managing denizens of the Plane of Earth. Report back in the morning."

Marbrand bit back a sigh. Dismissed for the day, and yet he had hours of squinting at cramped spidery writing and listening to the nasally drone of a pimply knock-kneed fool in a robe to look forward to. And lucky if he even got paid for it, since mages tended to view study as a pastime and not a profession.

Overhead the megantic violet dome that covered the ruins of Dalaran continued to pulse with energy. That pulse was easy to get used to and impossible to ignore, and tended to cause him blinding headaches if he stayed under the dome for more than twelve hours. Marbrand was only too glad to make for the edge of the city, climbing over a few patches of uncleared rubble towards a hole in the wall for the most direct route.

He knew he should take the main road to the Kirin Tor encampment, since he had no idea what work was being undertaken in this area and coming out along the perimeter would only draw the ire of the perimeter guards, but lately he'd found it hard to care about anything. Anyway he wouldn't mind running into a particular perimeter guard.

By fortune, or perhaps his friend's usual stolid vigilance, Blackfinger was waiting for him when he emerged through the hole in the wall and passed through the dome, speaking the proper pass-words to escape the impermeable barrier. With those words his brush with it only caused a blinding flash and an unpleasant tingle along the roots of his hair (every last strand of it on his body), rather than throwing him twenty feet backwards as a charred cinder. He knew the results firsthand since he'd seen it happen to an ogre down from the Alterac mountains who'd thought to sneak in and rob the magical ruins.

With defenses like that he almost wondered why they needed a perimeter guard, but the old campaigner in him was glad for more than just magic to guard his back as he worked. The infestation of ogres in Alterac had become epidemic over the last few months, many of the brutes smaller than those he remembered from the First and Second Wars. It raised the question of how prolific ogres truly were, since even though they weren't native to Azeroth they'd spread to just about every part of the Eastern Kingdoms during his decade of exile on Outland. The fat bastards must fuck like bunnies during the winter months to account for it.

He noticed the big man's shudder as he passed through the barrier, and wondered if Blackfinger was thinking of the burning ogre as well. The monster's fat had been seared from its bones, creating a smell not unlike pork, and to this day Marbrand had trouble eating roast boar.

"I heard the crash and saw the result," his friend said without preamble. Blackfinger was blunt like that. "Those elementals borked it proper this time."

Marbrand answered with an eloquent expletive.

His friend snorted. "Remember the Dareth Mill campaign, when the King's Conjurers tried to dig a moat and ended up flooding half the town? You'd think folks smart enough to read books all day would learn the lesson after a few decades."

"I'm pretty sure Verdon is Lord Avelsen's son, the way they both manage to completely lack the common sense it takes to close their mouth when it rains."

Blackfinger chuckled. "Well it's good to see your spirits up. A few weeks ago you couldn't even work up the effort to bitch properly." The big man stretched, drawing a series of creaks and clangs from his heavy plate armor. "Anyway I'm glad the clothies decided I was too stupid for city planning. And how was it that little gnome bastard put it? I "lacked the proper leadership qualities to be a foreman."

"I dunno," Marbrand muttered. "Those iceheads could use your particular brand of leadership. Maybe after you scattered what passes for brains on one of them the rest would get the message in a way I can't seem to convey."

"And miss the chance to walk around in circles all day?" Blackfinger patted the haft of his demon-forged axe significantly. "They should just let me take a few boys up the mountains to solve a few of our problems once and for all. You could take a break and come along."

Marbrand sighed. "These days my "breaks" involve a fat dusty tome and a mug of tepid piss the innkeeper manages to trick me into thinking is ale. Speaking of which I had best get to it, or I won't uncover the wondrous secrets of learning how to manage a team of blockheads."

Blackfinger grinned. "I get it. Earth elementals, right? Because their heads are blocks."

"Right." Marbrand clapped his friend on the shoulder as he walked past. "I'll see you tonight, eh?"

.

Marbrand barely glanced up as Silvie dropped down across from him. The young inkeeper was auburn-haired and comely, which he didn't hold against her since she'd always treated him well. Sure, her eyes shied away from his burned features along with just about everyone else, even those he knew well at times, but she made an effort to meet his eyes, and she went out of her way to speak to him.

"Nursing your ale as always, I see," she said lightly. "I sometimes wonder why you bother drinking at all, if you're not doing it fast enough to get a buzz."

"Ale's tonic for a sore man, lass," Marbrand answered. "Anyhow I'm old enough to value clear wits more than a drunken haze, no matter how pleasant."

She made a face. "As you say. I can't stand the taste of ale."

Marbrand couldn't think of any reply he wanted to bother with, so he simply took another sip and stared into the flickering shapes of the fire. He still hated the flames, and he still felt that old familiar fear of them, but being around mages you learned to live with fire or you went mad.

"Word's come from the Plaguelands," she said softly. "Adventurers have cleared the old ruins of Scholomance and driven back the Scourge influence. I still hold the title to my farm, and the way's been opened to reclaim it. Perhaps, Light willing, I can bring life back to that dead land."

Marbrand chuckled humorlessly. "Anything's possible." He knew enough of the undead to want nothing to do with their leavings. "But if it's your hope then I congratulate you on it."

With his eyes to the fire he didn't see the downward turn of her lips, but he could imagine it from previous conversations. When had he become such a downer? But rather than chastising him as she usually did she cleared her throat uncertainly. "The land's still dangerous, and the work will be hard. How would you like to come with me?"

Marbrand would've choked on his ale if he'd been more than sipping it. As it was he sprayed the sip onto the hearth. Then he laughed. "Lass, I worked a farm as a lad. Overseeing labor, even moronic elemental labor, is a prettier prospect hands down. I'm too old to be a farmhand."

"What about owner?" she asked softly.

He slowly set his ale down and gave her a closer look. "You'd deed your land over to me to get me along? You must be desperate."

"Not to you, to us." She pointedly tapped her empty ring finger.

Light be damned, was this girl proposing marriage? His eyes strayed from her finger to the generous cleavage behind it, then of their own volition up to her lovingly brushed auburn locks. He sighed. "I've not looked in a mirror recently. Have my horrible disfiguring scars vanished?"

Her eyes locked on his. Blue, not green as _hers_ had been. "That doesn't matter to me."

"Doesn't it? I see you look away same as any other woman."

To his surprise she stepped forward and clasped his free hand with both hers, firmly looking over his face, then meeting his eyes once more. "It doesn't matter to me, since I esteem you for who you are and your face does nothing to change that. Our world is a dangerous place. A woman wants to feel safe and cared for, and I know of no man on Azeroth more capable of giving me that than you. What's a few burns compared to that?"

Marbrand tried not to notice how soft her hands were. "You want to marry a man who'll die on you in a few years?"

She chuckled. "In a few decades, perhaps. And by then you'll have quelled the chaos on our lands and given me sons to care for me after you're gone."

Gods, the arrogance of this woman. To put the burden of her entire future on his back and offer him nothing in return, nothing but everything a man wanted in life. And when he'd grown so old he thought he'd long outlived any hope of having it.

His eyes strayed from her earnest face to the hair that framed it, and he felt the few fleeting fantasies that had sprung up at her offer wither and die. He sighed. "You're not the only one who's learned to look beyond the face, ma'am. I have nothing to offer you, and I'm afraid you have nothing to offer me."

He expected her to be insulted, throw a tantrum, and he wasn't disappointed. Hell hath no fury...

Silvie snatched her hands back and slapped the mug out of his hand, sending it rolling into the hearth to send it hissing and spitting. Then she slapped him. "I knew it!" she hissed, not unlike the fire. "Some other bitch got to you first and ruined both our futures! Well damn her and damn you, turning your nose up at a prospect above your highest expectations and a future you don't deserve!"

Marbrand stood, angry in spite of himself. He would never dream of striking a lady, but deep down it was hard not to feel that a lady's protection from such violence came from her own refusal to strike anyone, and when she got handsy all bets were off. "I'll take my leave."

"Not before paying your tab, you won't," she snapped. "And then don't you come back, Daran Marbrand!"

.

"You know you're nine kinds of fool, don't you, Dare?"

Marbrand ignored his friend, watching as the auburn head jolted along, all that was visible of her over the back of the wagon as she drove away with all her belongings. A handful of men from the settlement went with her. He had to wonder if one of them was the future Mr. Silvie Werthal. A pet lapdog for an entitled mistress.

"No crotch burns hotter than a fire crotch, and she's practically been grinding up against you for months. You could've been plugging that hole from here to-"

"She just wanted to use me," Marbrand cut in, more harshly than he intended. "She didn't give a damn about who I was, she just wanted a veteran who could hold his own in the wilds."

Blackfinger scratched at his beard. "So? Women are decorations, men are appliances. They're meant to be put on a pedestal and admired, we're meant to be useful and needed. You could've been happy with her."

Marbrand turned to his friend, eyes blazing. "Would you have been happy being smothered to death by Geana?"

His friend shot him a stricken look. "That's a low blow, Dare."

He'd known that the moment the words were out of his mouth, and the guilt just made him feel angrier. "Well Silvie looks like Olivia, damn it!" he growled. Without another word he turned and stormed back to his room.

.

Turned down.

Silvie was a rare beauty. Everyone she knew had told her that, and she wasn't one to argue. Striking features and enchanting eyes aside, you didn't get hair that color of burnished copper more'n one in a million. Hair men tugged themselves cross-eyed thinking of. She could have any man she wanted, and more than a few of the mages had tried for her affections. But her ambitions were simple, and her fondest dream had been to reclaim her family's lands and work the household and garden while a strong man worked the fields and livestock.

Marbrand would've been perfect for that, never mind his melted candle features. And strong for his age too! With his looks, with his age, with his poverty, he should've been groveling at her feet for the chance to put a ring on her finger. And instead he'd turned her down, and all but said that _she_ wasn't good enough for _him_!

She was fuming so hard she wouldn't have even noticed the approaching travelers if Dan, riding beside her wagon, hadn't given a low whistle of warning. She watched the two men on horseback warily, one hand resting near the hand cannon stowed beneath the wagon seat. They were living, sure enough, and their clothes were even fairly fine, if travel-stained. Good horseflesh, too, destriers of the sort knights rode, and these finer stock than she'd seen in years. The heavy armor they wore furthered the impression of knights, and one balanced an upright lance. They didn't have the look of banditry about them, but in these troubled times you couldn't be too careful.

"That'll be far enough," she called.

One of the horsemen had spurred ahead of the other, kicking the lance out of its stirrup-cup in preparation to defend his companion with a charge. "Are you owners of this road, then, to run us off it?" he demanded. He had a noble way of talking.

"I've a wagon, so's I can't be the one giving you a wide berth off the road," she shot back. "Let's keep this friendly, eh?"

The lancer made to reply, but his companion spoke to him, low and firm. With a glower their way the man kicked his mount off the road into the scrubby ditch beside it, across to the meadow on the other side. The other man made to follow, then paused. "You've come from Dalaran?" he asked. His voice was low and rich, the sort to make a woman's seat warm. And wet, if he got to saying the right things.

Silvie nodded warily. "Been an innkeeper at the encampment these two years."

"Well met then, mistress. Have you encountered a knight by the surname Marbrand, or his companion, a giant of a man nicknamed Blackfinger? Word had them making for the ruins of Dalaran to join up as skilled labor."

For a moment she wondered if she was being mocked. "Ain't no knight," she said scornfully. "Daran Marbrand is common as dirt."

The man leaned forward slightly, face showing interest beneath his deep cowl. "But he is a burned man, this Marbrand you know?"

"Burned as sin and twice as ugly," she said. She snapped the reins to get her mules moving. "Good day, fellow."

.

A whistle from the south lifted Marbrand's eyes from the ponderous tome he was reading to the Hillsbrad road. Two riders, heavy cavalry by their arms and armor, probably knights by their finery. The way one rode slightly ahead suggested a retainer or man-at-arms.

With a sigh he pushed to his feet, letting the old book plop to the wooden slats running in front of his small shack. The patrols had let these two through, so they'd been judged harmless, but that didn't mean the Kirin Tor wanted a bunch of strangers roaming around their project. Especially considering how Lord Garithos of the Alliance army and Kael'thas of the high elves had further trashed the ruins with their disastrous feud. As a foreman, it meant he was always on call to sort visitors out. Assuming he wasn't busy with something else, forcing the task on some apprentice mage.

The man-at-arms shifted slightly when Marbrand stepped out into the street, even though he wore no more than his sturdy tool belt with, among other things, a heavy knife and chisel. Marbrand could kill most men with just those, but this paranoid bastard wasn't to know that, meaning he took his duties as a bodyguard seriously.

The second man, all in blue and gold to scream his affiliation with Stormwind, spurred his horse up beside his companion and spoke to him in low tones. The man relaxed, slightly, and raised his voice to address Marbrand. "The inn?"

Marbrand pointed lazily behind him, to where Grea had taken over Silvie's inn. "Hard to miss."

The man-at-arms grunted and rode past him, casting him a wary sidelong glance. The Azerothian, however, rode up to confront Marbrand directly, as he did so unclasping his helmet and tugging it off with a few curses and a final heave.

Marbrand's eyes widened in shock when the man's face was revealed, and the next thing he knew his right knee was thudding into the packed dirt as he knelt in the middle of the street and ducked his head. The move was almost involuntary, the result of a lifetime of conditioning to chivalry and manners. "My Lord," he said.

Highlord Bolvar Fordragon, guardian to Anduin Lothar and regent of Stormwind, hooked his helmet over his pommel. "Get up, please, friend. I'm barely comfortable with such obeisances in my own kingdom."

Marbrand stayed down. "What brings you to Dalaran, my Lord? If I may ask. The Kirin Tor representatives are all housed in the few restored structures within the ruins, if you seek them."

The powerfully built nobleman, of a similar age to Marbrand but slightly shorter and stockier, paused in dismounting, then gave a slight groan and settled his feet on the ground, doing the all too familiar shifting and stretching in lieu of two good thumbs pressed against the small of the back. The only way an armored man could ease sore muscles after a long time on horseback. "Blunt and to the point I see, fellow. No offers to relieve the weariness of long travel?"

Marbrand flushed. He'd never really enjoyed the perquisites of his knighthood when it came to mingling with the lords and ladies of Azeroth, and he'd never had a chance to learn much beyond the etiquette of chivalry ingrained into him by old Sir Danasque. "My apologies, Highlord. I can show you to the inn."

Fordragon paused. "Then you recognize me, fellow?"

His mind flashed through all the reasons why recognizing one of the most well-known and beloved lords of Stormwind might be dangerous to him, and then he shrugged. "A not uncommon occurrence I would imagine, my Lord."

The Highlord chuckled. "Would it surprise you to know that I recognize you as well, Sir Marbrand?"

Immediately his wariness kicked into high gear. His stay in Stormwind had been relatively free of pomp, and similarly free of trouble. Although there was that banker, Burnside, that Blackfinger had laid out. Had the weasel pandered some influence in the court to put a bounty on Marbrand's head?

No, surely not. Burnside wouldn't want anyone looking too deeply into his theft of Lord Nex's accounts. And for that matter Bolvar Fordragon himself wouldn't have come on a simple bounty.

Fordragon chuckled again. "I see it does surprise you." He gave him a critical once over. "You fit the description, although I wouldn't have expected such plain attire. You look more a bedraggled peasant than a knight of the Brotherhood of the Horse."

Marbrand shrugged uncomfortably. The last thing he would've wanted was to be recognized and have his history known, least of all by this man. "I assumed some event in my past led to my spurs being revoked in disgrace."

The man gave him a surprised look, but thankfully didn't follow up on that. Instead he stretched again and gave another groan. "Get up please, Sir Marbrand. A knight who fought beside Archwizard Khadgar and Lord Lothar to slay the traitor Medivh, who earned his surname by the honorable wounds received there, has no need to kneel like a common footman." Marbrand pushed to his feet, surprised that this great lord not only recognized him but knew something of his history. Fordragon continued. "I need to get my blood flowing properly after so long in the saddle. I trust you still have your arms and armor, even if you have doubts about your continued nobility?"

"Of course." The land wasn't safe enough to leave off the gear of war, and it felt like a second skin to Marbrand. He almost missed it, so often did it stay in his rooms as he oversaw construction.

"Good. I'll see to my horse and make sure Talend has sorted out rooms and a meal to my satisfaction, then meet you out front the inn in fifteen minutes."

.

Twenty minutes later Marbrand stood in the stableyard of Silvie's inn, uncomfortable in his armor for the first time in years. Compared to the blue and gold lacquered masterpiece Fordragon stood resplendent in Marbrand's old, sturdy armor, carefully repaired and cared for for decades, seemed tawdry and common in comparison. He wasn't one to care about such things, usually, but then again he wasn't one to face off against one of the most powerful men in Azeroth in single combat, either.

Fordragon stood loose and confident with his feet firmly placed on the ground. No dancing or edging about for him as some younger men were wont to do. He took in Marbrand's ready stance and met his eyes inquisitively. "A lineman's stance? Fitting for a man who's spent a career in the infantry, but do you judge it the best position for single combat?"

Of course it wasn't. He left himself wide open to either side and from behind in this position, since it was meant to be used in a line with comrades in arms to either side and another line behind. But Marbrand merely clashed his ugly bastard sword against his battered, unadorned shield and waited.

The Highlord snorted. "Your taciturn nature borders on cheek, Sir." He abruptly moved, closing the distance between them in a rush and at the last moment planting his feet and putting his entire weight into his heavy tower shield, resting the rim against his shoulder and bashing hard at Marbrand's face and upper chest. Marbrand dropped into a partial crouch and slanted his shield above his head, trusting in his weight and position to absorb the shock. Even so the force of the blow was nearly enough to knock him back on his ass, which would've ended the fight before it began.

His right leg scrabbled back for a firmer grounding, even as he shoved back with his shield, up and to the left. His bastard sword flickered in low beneath the Highlord's raised shield and scraped along his breastplate at gut level, marring the blue lacquer.

Fordragon chuckled as he disengaged. "The high and low. I've got a spear in my throat from the man in line behind you, don't I?"

"Were you hoping for surprises?" Marbrand asked. "I'm a simple soldier."

"Ah, but I didn't come all this way for a simple duel." Fordragon abruptly moved again, this time circling around to Marbrand's right side. It was obvious he was maneuvering to get Marbrand's shield out of the picture, so he could use his own shield to force Marbrand's sword arm wide and spin him to expose his back. Only fools fell to that maneuver, since all you had to do was turn in place. Not only that but it kept you in a position of advantage since you were standing in place and your opponent was moving, expending more energy and opening himself up to a sudden rush while his balance was off.

Unless of course your opponent managed to time his own rush perfectly to when you were turning and your own footing was off. A split second window, but a split second was an eternity to a master swordsman.

Instead of doing either Marbrand sidestepped directly into the path of his opponent, planted his right foot, and delivered a devastating downward backhand slash directly at Fordragon's head. The Highlord raised his shield to block the blow, sending a jarring jolt up Marbrand's arm at the impact. But Marbrand was already moving, again sidestepping and dropping low to slam his shoulder upwards at the bottom of Bolvar's shield with all his strength behind it.

His reasoning was that a backhand was often followed by a quick followup attack, and Bolvar would keep his shield raised and prepare a counterattack. In such a position the sudden upward shoulder check would catch him off balance and send him staggering backward, at which point Marbrand could get in some real hits.

Instead the next thing he knew he was flat on his face with his sword pinned beneath him and his shield wide. It took him a moment before realization dawned. Fordragon had done some sidestepping of his own, getting around behind Marbrand and taking advantage of his own imbalance by shoving a booted foot into his lower back while Marbrand thought he was shoving Fordragon from the front.

He felt a heavy boot dig beneath his breastplate, then flip him up and around. He kept his muscles loose and allowed himself to be flipped, expecting his opponent to rest the tip of his fine longsword to his throat. Instead he saw an empty hand offering to help him up. Marbrand grudgingly took it, rising to his feet.

"Not much call for sidestepping in the line," Fordragon said, smiling slightly as he clapped his fist against Marbrand's chest and stepped away.

Marbrand found himself smiling as well as he resumed his ready position. They'd found each other's measure, and now it was time to begin the contest in earnest.

.

"-concluded my business in Southshore, then elected to come up here and see for myself how the restoration of Dalaran progressed. The Kirin Tor's success in coming back into its own is of interest to the Alliance, of course, and Lady Katrana is always seeking news, being an amateur conjurer herself. For my own sake I have friends among the Kirin Tor, and it has been far too long since last I looked into their welfare."

Marbrand nodded slowly. His muscles ached from the thorough drubbing he'd received at Fordragon's hands. While he was proud that he'd held his own to some extent, the highlord's ability so obviously outmastered his that the contest should have been over much earlier. But Fordragon had seemed content to put them both through their paces, so at times Marbrand almost felt as if he was being tested, as his old master-at-arms Horace had done with him on occasion.

With all Fordragon's talk of wanting to see Dalaran the man seemed strangely content to be here in this humble inn, sipping pisswater with a disgraced knight he'd just got finished pummeling with contemptuous ease. And it was obvious he wasn't in it for the local flavor, since he'd dismissed Grea from hovering about after she'd delivered their drinks, and made it clear by his manner that the few curious onlookers in the common room should keep their distance.

Marbrand's silence seemed to have spread to his companion. Bolvar was staring into the flames. "I shall miss the sights I have been blessed with on this trip," he finally said, voice soft. Even with all she has suffered at the hands of plague, scourge, and Horde, Azeroth is a world of rare beauty to my eyes. I delight in every leaf and blade of grass, every jagged peak and westering moon."

"You speak as if you'll soon be leaving," Marbrand said.

The highlord glanced his way. "So I shall. Had you not heard, Sir? The Dark Portal has opened once again. Demons flood from it, and even now Netherguarde Keep is beset and all the Blasted Lands threatened."

Marbrand's hand clenched around his mug. "I hadn't heard." That was true enough. What he failed to add was that even if he had heard, he wouldn't have pressed for details.

But whatever his wishes his companion seemed determined to share them. "Lady Katrana has urged me to join with her in advising my ward to commit the Alliance to a second expedition beyond the Dark Portal. We have seen for ourselves the threat the Burning Legion poses to our world, at this very city when Archimonde came through into our world and razed Dalaran to the ground. She claims we cannot sit idle and wait to see what threat the enemy will bring against us, that we must return to Draenor, if for no other reason than to gauge this new threat."

"Outland," Marbrand said quietly.

"Pardon?"

"Draenor is rubble. The survivors of its destruction call what remains Outland, now."

Fordragon nodded. "Outland awaits," he said quietly, "with all the Burning Legion mustering to invade Azeroth once more, and the traitor Illidan Stormrage brooding on his black throne and preparing to take back what was his. Equally dire, the Horde has established a presence on Hellfire Peninsula and is seeking the lost clans to bring back into the fold, increasing the threat they represent to the Alliance. I won't lie, Marbrand, I didn't come here to see the state of Dalaran's renovations. I came for mages to take to Outland." He paused significantly. "And, perhaps, for a man with experience fighting orcs, a man who's lived a healthy chunk of his lifetime on the very ground our campaign will take us to, a man who's spent his lifetime leading soldiers and fighting alongside them . . ." Fordragon trailed off and smiled. "And a knight to boot. Sir Marbrand, your presence on this campaign would be invaluable."

"Perhaps," Marbrand growled. "But I've lived my life serving Azeroth for nothing. Wasted my years only to be spat on by those I fought to protect. The prospect of returning to the hell of Outland simply because I can be useful isn't very appealing."

"War isn't appealing. Only a fool walks into it, and only a fool who's seen it firsthand stays to fight another. There's no fool like an old campaigner." The highlord smiled sadly. "You can't take the war out of a warrior, Sir Marbrand, any more than you can take violence itself from Azeroth. As long as our world exists and we exist on it we'll be fighting. And you know it."

"I tried to die a warrior's death," Marbrand answered, struggling to keep his voice calm. "Failing that, a warrior's life has lost all luster."

"What of the life of a paladin?"

Marbrand froze, eyes widening. "What?"

The stocky highlord chuckled. "Yes, I thought that would get your attention. You're of my generation, a knight and soldier with decades of experience. I trust you're one of the few who can understand just how precious and sacred the calling is."

Marbrand drew in a ragged breath. "You're offering me an invitation into the ranks of paladins?" Fordragon didn't need to reply, since the offer had been obvious the moment he spoke the words, and Marbrand's thoughts raced at this new possibility.

The world had changed since Marbrand left on his expedition beyond the Dark Portal, to what would turn out to be a decade of disgrace and exile in a hostile and perilous land. These days any fool with a sword and a prayer could embrace the Light and call himself a paladin.

But it was not always so. In Marbrand's opinion it shouldn't be so. Before the opening of the Dark Portal the Church of the Holy Light had been an organization of peace and good works. The Light was a tool for healing and giving succor to the poor and disabled, and using it for fighting was considered blasphemy. Even when healing soldiers injured in combat, depending on the war in question, the clerics and priests would often secure an oath from those they aided to shun violence in every case but in the utmost extreme defense of their lives or the lives of the innocent.

The Church's influence had stopped countless wars, keeping the kingdoms of men united in purpose so one man need not fear another. In its radiance the human spirit had thrived and turned man from a young, wayward race into one of the most prosperous and well regarded races on Azeroth. The main source of strife to men had come from trolls and gnolls and other such primitive, savage denizens of Azeroth.

The decision to use the Light in combat had not been an easy one, and it was one only reached when the full barbarity of the offworld invaders, the orcs and ogres and gronn, had become known. The blasphemy of using the Light to harm others was confronted by the blasphemy of doing nothing to confront the warlocks and necrolytes with their corruptions and necromancy. Of sitting idle while the Horde threatened to destroy the races of Azeroth to the last and take this beloved world for their own, to desecrate and defile it as they had Draenor.

But even then the Light was treated with reverence. Only the most holy and pious of the kingdom's knights had been invited to join the Order of the Silver Hand. Archbishop Alonsus Faol had originally selected Uther the Lightbringer as the first paladin, with him selecting a handful of other candidates from among the most revered and honored knights of Azeroth. They had chosen none other than Saidan Dathrohan, Tirion Fordring, and Turalyon, all great heroes of the First War, and shortly afterward included Gavinrad the Dire to their number on the recommendation of Lord Lothar.

Marbrand had worshiped the paladins of his day. They were everything a man aspired to be, everything a man could hope to become. And now he looked at Highlord Fordragon, another man he deeply admired, and was torn.

"You offer this honor to one unworthy of it."

Fordragon chuckled. "Do you realize, Sir Marbrand, that such words were spoken by Turalyon when the offer was extended to him? Even Uther the Lightbringer didn't view himself as pious enough to wield the Light in battle. He was afraid he would misuse it and damn himself by his profanity."

"Do not put me in such exalted company," Marbrand spat, and Fordragon backed away slightly, surprised at his vehemence. "The mantle of a paladin is the greatest honor a knight could hope for, one requiring piety and honor beyond measure. There is no one more unworthy of it than I. I failed my men. I let them be exiled on Outland, cast out into the chaos of a dying world to become hated and feared by those they fought to protect, vilified by draenei who attacked us first and forced us to defend ourselves, then slandered our name to Danath Trollbane and Archwizard Khadgar and forced an unjust punishment upon us in the name of peace between our peoples. I failed them again when I accepted a poisoned offer to bring them home, only to see them all slaughtered in the hell of Northrend. I was fool enough to trust a traitor and a murderer to protect my men, fool enough to trust in my own strength and leadership to bring us through."

Marbrand hesitated, then continued in a low, tortured voice. "I was fool enough to bring a viper to my bosom, letting her deep where her bite was most deadly. And in the end, when all was lost and I had failed those who had sworn their lives to me, failed them in every way it was possible for a leader to fail those under his responsibility, I couldn't even die to wash away my shame."

Fordragon looked away, and Marbrand did also, thinking the man was sparing him the pity of looking upon his shame. He was surprised when the Highlord spoke and his voice was thick with emotion. "I spoke with Blackfinger and he tells a different story. You judge yourself harshly now, when you have all the information you did not have when these decisions were thrust upon you."

"Ignorance is no excuse for the lives my decisions cost," Marbrand whispered.

Fordragon turned to look at him once more, meeting his eyes with surprising force. "Do you not see, Sir Marbrand? You speak of Uther and Turalyon in awe, of their piety and honor. And yet you knew them in your youth and to you they were legends. Yet now you have become the legend, of whom others speak in awe. You have become the sort of candidate Alonsus Faol would choose as a founding member of the Order of the Silver Hand."

Marbrand jerked upright from his slouch, eyes widening. "What?"

The Highlord's eyes were filled with understanding. "Did you know that Turalyon blamed himself for Lothar's death? That he never considered himself worthy to be a knight, and would have refused command of the armies of Azeroth had King Terenas not personally plead with him? All the men you revered suffered doubts and recriminations for their failures. It was not their perfection that made them worthy of being paladins, but their honor in continuing forward, willing to shoulder whatever burdens fell upon them for the sake of Azeroth.

"Sir Marbrand, you are one of the few humans the elves still speak of with respect. In Stormwind Anduin Wrynn asks after you, Lady Katrana Prestor suggests you for rewards and commendations, and the expedition to Northrend you tout as such a failure is spoken of in the streets as a shining beacon to humanity that all hope is not lost in the war against the Scourge. That a tattered few thousand elves and humans with all the might of the Lich King against them managed to hack their way to his very throne and nearly topple it before being overwhelmed. In the Magetower Archmages demand your installment as a member of the Stormwind Watch. Daval Prestor would like to reform the Sons of Lothar with you at their head."

Marbrand stared at the man openmouthed. He'd heard none of these things, and wasn't sure he believed them. Even coming from Bolvar Fordragon himself they seemed absurd. Did the people who praised him not know who he was, all he'd failed to do?

Fordragon continued quietly. "And none speaks your praise higher than Lewis Addleston, who not an hour ago accepted the offer of knighthood in reward for all his deeds of valor, and agreed to return to Stormwind as a member of the Order of Turalyon."

For a moment Marbrand was stung with a feeling of betrayal. Blackfinger, agreeing to become a paladin and leave him?

And yet who was more deserving of the honor than his oldest and dearest friend? Indeed, who exemplified the loyalty and courage demanded of in a knight better than the man who had stayed by his side, uncomplaining, for all the years they'd known each other.

Was it Blackfinger who'd betrayed him by taking this honor, or Marbrand who betrayed his friend by thinking to refuse it to him? Or, for that matter, putting yet another strain on that loyalty by wishing Blackfinger remain here, with him, to waste away in misery when such grand opportunities were still available to him?

"To you, however, is extended the offer to join the Order of the Silver Hand itself." Bolvar smiled at his stunned look. "Yes, only a paladin can induct a candidate into his order, save by decree of the king himself. But with Lord Tirion Fordring recently returned from the dead and leading the charge against the undead in the Plaguelands, and King Anduin accepting your candidacy into that exalted order, you have both. Lord Fordring accepts you as worthy, and the king has decreed that the Knights of the Silver Hand be resurrected in their old capacity to fight the Burning Legion and its agents on Outland, with you on the list of candidates. High on the list, I might add."

Against his will his reeling thoughts turned to Silvie. She'd tempted him with an offer few men would've been mad enough to refuse, an offer of everything a man could wish for. He felt right in rejecting it, right in rejecting that life altogether. And yet he had no desire to languish, serving no more use to the world than putting one stone on top of another when any man could do it better.

He was a soldier. And, burdened as he was by the guilt of his failures, he still had to admit that he was a commander as well. He could lead men, inspire their loyalty in a way few others could. He had a chance. A chance to benefit fighting boys and men with all the brutal experience he'd earned over his decades as a soldier. A chance to become a conduit for the Light and wield it as it should be wielded, in a way few who had the gall to call themselves paladins chose to do. A second chance to be part of something larger than himself and not fail his brothers in arms.

Marbrand stood slowly, extending his hand. "I cannot consider myself deserving of this honor," he said, and his voice rasped with unexpected emotion. "But I'll spend my life working to be worthy of it."

Fordragon reached forward and clasped his hand, crushing it in his grip. "You shall be, Lord Marbrand. Tonight you will spend in prayer, and in the morning we will set out for Stormwind. Light willing, by the time you arrive I'll have taught you to call upon the Light with your own voice and receive its answer."


End file.
